As many of you may have noticed, I've been trying to gear this blog towards a larger audience lately, featuring posts about world events, news, bizarre happenings, and, well, things that aren't me bitching about my life. I'm trying to prepare myself before I start seriously investing in this site as, more than anything, I want my writing to be read, and that requires two things- content and exposure.

This all said, I'm going to take a bit of a break from that in this post, and post something I started last night, on my nineteenth birthday. (Props to Emily for remembering it!) A journalish entry, I think it may be the start of some growthful work dealing with my self-esteem issues...or maybe not so much growthful as...well, disturbing. Suffice to say, I wanted to go farther with it last night, but I am in Florida for the weekend, tied by the bonds of my vacation schedule and my laptop battery. I was unable, therefore, to get out all of what was in me then, and unable now to find it again, but I do hope that this will be the first of a series of posts that feature my intimate conversations with Jiminy Critic.




My Night with Jiminy

It’s 11:45, and raining outside the window beside me in the lounge area of my Kissimee Comfort Inn. I am in Florida on official duty– here to escort my unexperienced Uncle, Cousin and Aunt around Disney World, and attend another cousin’s wedding. Tommorrow, I will be spending the day in the company of Cinderella, Mickey Mouse, and Jiminy Cricket. Tonight, I am accompanied, as ever, by Jiminy Critic.

Jiminy Critic is the name I have given to that little voice in my head– you know the guy, chances are, one of his brothers or sisters lives with you. The one that taunts you and calls you bad things and tells you you’re fat, or incompetent, or otherwise inadequate everytime he gets the chance. I am reading a self-help book called “Self-Esteem”, and in the “For the Therapist” section, which I briefly skimmed, it talks about encouraging the client to give his Pathological Critic- that’s what those little voices are officially called– a name. I don’t know if it will mention that idea in any parts of the book that are actually for the patient. Of course you don’t, you lazy shit, you’re too much of a coward to get around to doing the things the books tells you to do before continuing reading. You’re too fucking scared to go on. You bullshit fucker.

That’s Jiminy. He’ll be in italics from now on in this post. I hope this doesn’t get confusing.

Anyways, as he mentioned, I haven’t gotten past this one activity that you have to do in the book– to be explained, perhaps, in more detail later– so I do not know whether it will ask me to give my little voice a name. But if they do, I will be one step ahead of them. I’m not sure that I’m supposed to be one step ahead of them, as the potential for personal growth seems to be based on following the books strict guidelines, but I couldn’t resist. The name seemed too perfect– there’s this lovable cartoon character who represents a happy, positive voice in your head, one that tells you the difference between right from wrong in a gentle, friendly way. And his name just happens to sound just like a word that refers to another voice that tells you the difference between the two...cruelly, harshly, and largely inaccurately, but he tells you none-the-less.

The book explains that that is one of the reasons we allow our evil little crickets to chirp– in some cases, we need them to function because their verbal punishment of us acts as motivation for us to stop slacking off, get something done, not do things wrong, etc. Not all the time, just some of it. Jiminy, and all his friends, work on the same principle as Slot Machines– if using them pays off once, we allow ourselves to get addicted. Every now and then, listening to that lil’ bastard accomplishes something, or gratifies us somehow, so we keep him around, in hopes that it’ll happen again. Take, for instance, the comparing one always does between themselves in everyone else. You might think that you aren’t as smart as person A or as pretty as person B a hundred times, but if every now and then you find a person C that you compare favorably too, you feel better about yourself, and therefore continue with this largely unhealthy thought pattern.

There are lots of other reasons- almost all of them based on the slot machine principle- that we continue to listen to these bitches. One that seems popular among my male friends, in particular, is that the punishment they inflict on themselves absolves us of guilt. Person A hurts person B, and feels guilty about it. Enter Critic. Critic calls person A a bastard, an insensitive son of a bitch, a total useless piece of garbage. This makes person A feel like he’s being punished for his sins and that makes him feel better and makes the guilt go away or, in some cases, he just believes everything the critic says– I.E. “I am a bastard, and that’s why I behaved like a bastard. There is nothing I can do about that.”– so the anxiety that comes along with wondering– wondering why he acted that way, wondering how to atone, etc.– for the situation is relieved.

Think about it.


Jiminy fucks with me. Well, nobody else can, you malfunctioning cunt. You should be thankful. He ruins my relationships– Oh, yeah, that’s me alright. –and kills off my ambition– some accomplishment there. The hotel bathroom has a large mirror, and this doesn’t help the situation a bit. As I strip myself for my shower tonight, I see my reflection.


Fat
ugly
bitch.

What are those pimply things on your ass?

You really have your mother’s body.

Look at all that goddamned cellulite– you’re only nineteen. Happy fucking birthday.

How could Zack possibly love someone who looks like you?


It’s flourescent lighting. Nobody looks good in flourescent lighting.


True, but should we do a count to find out how many people look as bad as you do in it?



My laptop is running out of batteries. I hope I can find this mindset later.

Yeah, it’s been a blast.

Go to hell.




On with it.